Harry Potter's Biggest Fanboy
by tearlessNevermore
Summary: Harry Potter was a disappointment to the former Death Eaters. Without the nascent warlock of incredible power they'd hoped for, they turned to other avenues. But among there was a younger, more impressionable mind, who saw potential that others didn't—and may, honestly, be entirely in his head. A tale of friendship in the face of adversity, food, confused dogs, and the Merry Men.


**A/N:** Many thanks to DragonStar7Queen for beta-reading. You're awesome! :)

* * *

The Hogwarts Express had only a single job each year; to ferry students back and forth between their school lives and home lives. To that end, it was not overly elaborate.

Its compartments were comfortable but not luxurious. The trolley's selection was pleasant but not extravagant. And above all, there was no spell damping the thundering of the train down the tracks.

All who travelled aboard the Express knew with every shake and shiver that they were on the way. That the panting of the engine brought them that much closer to a new start, a new life.

On this day, the Express busy with its precious cargo of new students, there was nothing and nobody to stop a blond-haired boy stalking out of a compartment and down the train, muttering under his breath. Two larger boys follow after him, allowing the door to shut behind them.

"Can you believe that?" Draco Malfoy—who else?—said, turning on his henc—future fellow Slytherins when they didn't respond. Greg grumbled in agreement, scowling heavily in imitation of his father. Vince settled for nodding vigorously and grinning. Draco rolled his eyes and continued. "I mean, you saw it, right? He snubbed me. He. Snubbed. Me. _Me_. And for who? A filthy blood-traitor and an even filthier mudblood?"

Vince complemented his nodding with a growl. It sounded vaguely like a constipated hamster. He was still working on it.

"It wasn't supposed to be like that! He's supposed to be some great and powerful wizard, filled with cunning. The kind of wizard that can eclipse the Dark Lord. He should have recognised me, taken my offer. What reason could he possibly have to stick around with thos—"

Draco stopped, mid-word and mid-stride. Vince and Greg stumbled over each other trying to halt and cannoned into them, sending all three spilling to the floor of the train.

"Get off me, you idiots," Draco snapped, wriggling out from under Vince and climbing back to his feet. He dusted off his robes while waiting for his accomplices—yes, that sounded better—to clamber back to standing positions.

"Now, like I was about to say, he should've recognised me. We met, you know? Back in Madam Malkins that day. I introduced myself, gave my name and he… Didn't. Not properly. Who does that, not giving their family name in return? It's basic etiquette, every child knows that. So he didn't tell me because he didn't want me to know who he was.

"He left me in the dark… He wanted to stay incognito? No, he's too distinctive, there has to be more to it. He didn't want _me_ , specifically, to know." Draco's brow furrowed. "But the Malfoy family is one of the most respected in the world. Why would he deny himself the opportunity to ally with us, not once, but _twice?_ "

Vince and Greg looked at each other, uncomfortable. They didn't know how to deal with complicated questions.

"That was rhetorical, you two! Ughh, never mind. Let's get back to our compartment before we crash into Hogwarts itself. A rusted piece of Muggle rubbish like this, it'll be a miracle if we don't end up in the lake."

The proto-Slytherins' journey back to their own compartment was bereft of any further incident, save for Draco's constant mumbling and scowling at thin air. Their compartment was empty when they arrived, their previous companions seeking out other company in the absence of the Malfoy heir.

Draco flopped down on one bench, gesturing to Vince and Greg to take the other. He ran one hand up his face and through his hair, dropping his elbow onto the table. The hand clenched, knotting itself in Draco's sleek hair. The mumbling intensified, before cutting off.

Draco looked up from his palm, smoothing his hair again. He was smiling now, a touch of excitement in his eyes.

"I've got it," he said. "Potter, I know what he's up to. Of course, it all makes sense now. He couldn't possibly be seen associating with me. It's so simple, yet so brilliant!"

Greg and Vince were considered to be exceedingly simple by many but considered brilliant by none. They successfully frowned in unison at their unofficial leader, silently cueing the forthcoming exposition.

"It's simple: Harry Potter is a good guy. He's a hero, just like all the history books say. And so long as he acts the part, nobody will be any the wiser. He's worked his way into company so low that nobody would even think to look for a budding Dark Lord there.

"And when he gets to the castle, he'll join one of the goody-goody houses. He'll make friends, make himself known. All so that when he moves to take power, nobody will suspect a thing. If he hadn't brushed me off so deliberately, I don't think I would have spotted it either."

Draco trailed off and leaned back in his seat, a content smile painted on his face. Vince and Greg smiled too, not wanting to seem upset at such good news. Greg pulled out a packet of Chocolate Frogs and passed them around, trying to play along to the apparently-festive atmosphere.

Draco tore his packet open, deftly catching the leaping confectionery mid-leap and snapping its head off. Stuffing the Frog into his mouth, one leg at a time, he pulled out the card.

"Merlin," he read. "Possibly the greatest wizard of all time, known to many as the Prince of Enchantments. A legend remembered to this day. And a Slytherin, of course. Not that those idiots would put that on a card. Stuck-up Muggle-lovers."

Draco spent the rest of the trip savouring various sweets and fantasising about the world that Potter would bring. If there was a flicker of doubt in his heart, a stray thought that whispered of the chance that there was no more to Potter than met the eye, then he plucked it out, tore it to shreds, and devoured it, morsel by morsel.

Greg and Vince had never seen anyone eat a Bertie-Botts Bean like that before.

—tN—tN—tN—

There were many kinds of homes for many kinds of people. The Weasleys lived in a chaotic building that sprawled upwards into the skyline, its hodge-podge nature reflecting the messy but cheerful family that dwelled within. The Lovegoods resided in a round stone tower, its shape and stature epitomising both the strength of its denizens and their isolation.

Amidst acres of manicured lawns and carefully-bred animals, there stood Malfoy Manor. Protected by invisible defences and a foreboding iron gateway, it was a house built to both protect and impress. Simultaneously a fortress and a showpiece. its tall floors and wide walls spoke of cavernous halls within, while the luxurious windows let not a peek of them escape.

In one such hall, situated off from the main Entrance hall, there reclined three individuals, as precisely groomed as their house. The room was sparse, the walls graced only by a tasteful depiction of a far-off mountain—acting as a further symbol of prestige to those who recognised it as land once owned by the Malfoys—the checker-tiled floor covered by a black and blue rug. Upon the rug rested three chaise lounges, arranged in a U with the open end facing the doors.

The elder Malfoys were presently seated in the central chaise lounge, watching their beloved son pace back and forth before them, speaking and gesticulating.

"It was amazing! He tried to steal a baby dragon from the groundskeeper, he tricked a mudblood into doing all his work for him, he broke through all of Dumbledore's protections and beat the Dark Lord himself to the Philosopher's Stone! They say he fought the Dark Lord and the Defence teacher at the same time and killed them both. If Dumbledore hadn't interfered, he would have gotten away with the Stone too!"

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy swapped decidedly neutral glances as their son's gushing finally came to an end. From the moment he'd stepped off the Hogwarts Express, he'd done nothing but regale them with tales of Potter's covert efforts to seize power.

"Indeed, Draco, he does sound very impressive," Lucius said, satisfied that nothing more was forthcoming. "But, to back up slightly, you say that he has not approached you or any of your peers at all? A commendable devotion to secrecy, to be sure, but I cannot see the Dark Lord's successor associating solely with blood-traitors and mudbloods. If he will not even consider an alliance with you over trivial matters then he is unlikely to grant you favour when in power either."

"Oh!" Draco's mouth dropped open. "I forgot, I completely forgot. Once I knew what he was doing, I was so focused on not getting in his way that I didn't let him know that I knew. No, this is fixable, this is fixable, there are still six years at Hogwarts left. I'll—I'll talk to him privately next year! No, better, I'll write to him! Write to him today!"

Draco turned and ran from the room. Still re-adjusting to his 'normal' robes, he tripped on the hem and fell to the ground, scrambling back up and out of the room without pause for complaint. In his absence, his parents traded decidedly less neutral glances.

"He has quite an unhealthy obsession with that boy," Narcissa noted, lips pursed as she tried to weigh up how to feel about it. "It's hard to say how much of what he said was true and how much was the product of a distinctly coloured view of the situation. At the very least, it doesn't sound like Draco is in any direct danger."

"I have my doubts about the Potter boy," Lucius said, acknowledging his wife's perspective with a nod. "For all his supposed cunning and thirst for power, if he has no inclination towards using it in the right direction, then he is worse than useless. He's an obstacle, an opponent."

"An opponent that has already taken our son without even realising," Narcissa added, the ghost of a smile brushing her lips before flitting away into the ni—the day, into the day.

"A test is in order," Lucius decided. "Hogwarts is long overdue a cleansing, a baptism of fire. If the Potter boy allows it to happen and reveals his true loyalties, then all will be well."

"And if he successfully opposes the… 'Cleansing'? What then?"

"Then we will know for certain that his power is real. Slytherin's monster or the Boy Who Lived. Two legends, both shrouded in myth and speculation. If they come into conflict, the stronger power will show itself, and the weaker perish."

"I for one, rather hope that the Potter boy survives," Narcissa said, beckoning a filthy house-elf over to pour her wine. "Draco will be ever so upset if something happens. Do something nice for him in advance, dear. Maybe that broomstick he's been talking about."

"An excellent idea," Lucius agreed, accepting his own tumbler of whiskey.

His tasks done, Dobby retreated from the room, turning over what he'd heard. Harry Potter was wise and good, he knew. He had to be. But the Masters and Mistress thought the great Harry Potter might be evil as well.

It would be easier all around, Dobby decided, if Harry Potter didn't reach Hogwarts in the first place. He was just a bit too late to stop Draco's owl, however.

—tN—tN—tN—

 _Dear Mr Potter,_

 _I am aware that we have not gotten off on the right foot, as the saying goes. While I quite understand how you may be unwilling to be seen associating with ones such as me, I feel compelled to offer you my aid should you ever need it._

 _I would also like to apologise most sincerely for doubting your choice of companions on the Hogwarts Express. I understand now that I was foolish indeed to cast aspersions on those that you have deemed worthy of your friendship. Your assorted endeavours throughout the year with their aid has been enlightening. I am willing to make any reasonable reparations you may require to remedy this offence._

 _As such, if there is any way in which I may be of service to you then I implore you to contact me, by letter if need be. Given the isolation of the Owlery and the frequency with which I receive owls, this is unlikely to raise suspicion._

 _It is my honour to be your dutiful servant,_

 _Draco Malfoy_

—tN—tN—tN—

Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey, was neat. It matched its neighbours in every detail save for the garden. There, the greenery was arranged in the orthodox patterns prescribed by the previous month's magazines.

The neighbours, by contrast, had arranged their own demesnes in accordance with the more recent volume and eyed the Dursleys aberrant garden warily. The more observant among them was assuaged by the appearance of new gardening supplies being stacked in the backyard, but the rest continued to subtly shun Petunia and Vernon in passing.

In the smallest of the house's bedrooms, Harry Potter blinked. He removed his glasses, rubbed them carefully on his trousers, and donned them once more. Not even a further blink succeeded in dislodging or changing the letter in his hands.

Draco Malfoy confused Harry. The blond had rubbed him the wrong way the first time they'd met. Their second meeting had furthered that impression. Draco Malfoy was a bully. A richer, cleverer, magical version of Dudley.

But he didn't approach Harry again after the train. He'd taken a few shots at Neville but then broken those off as well. Whenever they saw each other, Draco had been curt but polite, refusing to meet Harry's eyes.

And Harry kept seeing him in odd places. Ducking around a corner as he approached, climbing a staircase parallel to his own. That wasn't counting the time he'd spied on them at Hagrid's either. He was… He was a stalker.

Aunt Petunia had complained about stalkers once. Complained about the weirdos who trailed after ordinary, decent, people. Spying on them, taking photos, sending strange letters…

Harry hadn't seen any cameras in Hogwarts but the rest fit.

Draco Malfoy was stalking him. But why?

Harry had no idea. This… This was nothing like any kind of bullying he'd seen. The closest he could come up with was the one time Aunt Petunia had acted syrupy sweet to him for a day to get him to behave well while some woman in a starched suit and a clipboard walked around the house.

Did Draco want something? That sounded more like it. But what? Harry had gold, but so did Draco. Or Draco's family did, anyway.

Harry shook his head and tossed the letter to one side. He was completely lost. If he could, he would have asked Ron or Hermione what they thought, but Hedwig had been trapped in a cage by a fastidiously non-magical lock.

Harry spared a moment to scowl through the wall at his aunt and uncle's bedroom. Coincidentally, this was the same wall that held a mirror. A mirror that—through nothing more mystical than the reflection of photon waves—demonstrated an obvious solution to his problems.

The Malfoys did not own stupid owls. The wizarding world in general prized the magical ability of owls to cross great distances without being seen, to locate people anywhere, and an uncanny ability to follow detailed instructions. These plebeian talents were insufficient for the purposes of the self-styled aristocrats. Draco's owl, therefore, was trained in advanced etiquette and problem-solving.

Etiquette dictated that all letters be answered. However, Harry's sole means of responding was locked away, beyond the reach of the sky. Therefore, it was incumbent on the eagle owl to offer its own services to its master's correspondent until such time as he was able to free his own bird.

The intricacies of this passed by Harry completely. All he saw was Draco's owl still standing on the end of his bed, occasionally tapping one foot.

"Excuse me," he said, turning and going over to the bird. "But would you mind if I asked you to carry a few more letters to my friends? Hedwig isn't in a position to fly at the moment."

Draco's owl fluttered off the bed and onto the desk, tapping its foot on a sheaf of parchment.

"Thanks," Harry said, grinning.

The owl left a short while later, a bundle of letters in its talons. As requested, it winged its way to Ron and Hermione before returning to its own master.

"I helped," Draco said, clutching the letter from Harry to his chest. It was short, a bit curt and rather confused, but there was a definite impression of gratitude in their somewhere. Draco was relieved. He really was worried that he'd messed up somehow.

—tN—tN—tN—

"Malfoy," Harry said, voice stiff. "You came."

"I did offer my assistance to you," Draco said, trying not to sound too hurt. He didn't want to risk sabotaging any possible test of loyalty.

They met in the Trophy Room with an hour to go before sunset. A neutral location, plenty of time to get back to their respective Houses, all in all, a well-considered location for negotiation. Draco approved.

"You two," he said, snapping at Greg and Vince. "Stand outside and make sure we're not disturbed."

The stalwart duo nodded and retreated from the room, taking up station either side of the doorway, and proceeding to discuss the merits and demerits of the new mint-flavoured chocolate frogs.

It was an interesting change, they agreed, but the flavour was still inconsistent from packet to packet. And it was derived from a Muggle fad, which automatically made it a questionable practice.

Ron and Hermione remained by Harry's side, joining him in eyeing the Slytherin distrustfully.

"What did you need?" Draco said after several minutes of awkward silence. He tried not to sound resentful, but it was hard. Especially when he had a distinct impression that the Gryffindors hadn't expected him to turn up at all.

"The day before yesterday, on Hallowe'en," Harry began, "we came across Filch's cat petrified with that strange message on the wall. The whole school came out before we could tell anyone, but you seemed to have an idea what was going on."

It wasn't a question. It was an order. Draco was simultaneously repulsed by the presumption and relieved by a hint of the behaviour he expected of Potter.

"The Chamber of Secrets is an old Hogwarts legend about a hidden weapon that Sala—"

"We know what the legend of the Chamber is, Malfoy," Ron butted in. "We got it from Binns. We want to know what else you know. I mean, we both know that your family's neck-deep in Dark Arts and secrets." Draco swallowed the urge to make a cutting remark about the incompetence of Arthur Weasley. It was not the right time.

"Yes, well, good research," he said, feebly trying to cast for anything that might satisfy Potter. A snatch of an old story snagged on his questing thoughts, pulling loose an entire volume. Draco brightened.

"Ah yes, now I remember! The Chamber was supposedly opened 50 years ago, while my grandfather was here. Apparently the culprit—the Heir—was caught… But I think there's more to it. Father always got strange when the subject came up."

"Do you know who the culprit was last time?" Hermione pressed, gaze intent on Draco as if hoping to glean some further nugget of information from observation alone. "Or what Slytherin's monster is? Or where the Chamber was located?"

"I—I don't know," Draco was forced to admit, hastily adding, "but I can find out! I can write to mother, even if father doesn't want to tell me! Or even my aunt! I can find out, just give me some time!" Another crumb of the story fell free. "Oh! I do remember one other thing."

"What is it?" Harry asked, expression inscrutable.

"Last time… The culprit was caught when a student died. I don't know who the victim was… But again, I can find out! I promise!"

"That would be useful, thanks," Harry said, blinking slightly. "So, err, could you let us know what you find? By owl, so you don't have to be seen talking to a bunch of Gryffindors."

"I will, I promise!"

Draco narrowly resisted the urge to bow while reversing from the room. Vince and Greg joined him, still deep in discussion on the philosophy of flavour in modern magical snacks, as he set a fast pace to the Slytherin common room.

He had a mission and he would not fail.

—tN—tN—tN—

"You sure Draco won't mind us being in here?" Vince said, examining the table in front of him.

"He said to go amuse ourselves, didn't he?" Greg pointed out, selecting a knife to look at closer. "And he was complaining about us never doing anything by ourselves, so..."

"Yeah, good point. So, how do we start?" Vince turned to the nearest house-elf.

"First of all, masters," the elf said, voice high and nervous, "yous must wash your handses. It's a kitchen rule, yes it is."

Greg and Vince, both imposing students, nodded in near-synch and walked over to the basin of water in the corner of the kitchen.

It was a simple arithmetic, really, even for them. They liked food, they liked lots of food, so they should learn how to make food. Even if it meant talking to weird house-elves.

—tN—tN—tN—

Sirius blinked. He blinked again.

He strongly considered changing back to his human shape, just in case there was something defective about his doggy vision. There had to be an explanation for what he was looking at.

Perhaps he really had cracked back in Azkaban. Maybe he'd even hallucinated the past decade of his life following James and Lily's murders. He even gave sirius consideration to the possibility that it was all some practical joke being played on him by Remus, right before he was sent back to the Dementors.

Those were all reasonable explanations. Or, at the very least, they were no more fantastic than the sight of Lucius Malfoy's smaller clone bowing and scraping to James's son, his two toadies lurking in the background and comparing… Were those recipe books?

Harry was upset, Sirius could see that much. It wasn't at Malfoy the Younger though. A likely-Weasley and a curly-haired girl that Sirius didn't recognise were trying to calm Harry, occasionally shooting glares in the direction of the blond.

In any case, Harry didn't seem to be in too much trouble. There was probably a story behind the Malfoy's behaviour—a story Sirius was a bit too scared to contemplate—but he wouldn't glean it by peering out from behind a bush.

Sirius turned and bounded off, his mind preoccupied with what he'd just witnessed. And then with the sensation of being dopeslapped by an animate tree that didn't like being run into by distracted dogs.

He couldn't decide whether the former or latter sets of thoughts were more uncomfortable.

—tN—tN—tN—

"I need you to find a rat."

The demands of Potter were strange indeed, Draco thought. Harry had called him—alone—to meet in a classroom on the third floor. The night before there had been some furore about Black being spotted on the school grounds again.

"When you say 'find a rat', do you mean a literal rat or a traitor?" Draco asked.

"Both. A traitor that can turn into a rat."

"An Animagus?" Draco asked, eyes widening.

"Yeah. Listen, I'll fill you in on what happened, but first we need to find that rat. You can keep a secret right?"

"Of course! I won't tell a soul."

"Good. Well, you can tell Crabbe and Goyle if you think you can trust them but nobody else. The rat you're looking for is the Death Eater who betrayed my parents to Voldemort."

"Sirius Black is a rat animagus?" Draco asked, eyes widening. "Of course, that's how he was able to sneak into the castle all the time. Nobody looks twice at a rat unless you're a cat."

"Errr, no. He's not Sirius Black." Harry hesitated. "He's Peter Pettigrew. And he was hiding as Ron's pet rat, Scabbers. I swear there's a good explanation for this but it's kind of long and I don't have any evidence at the moment."

"Not a problem," Draco said, plastering on an eager smile. Internally, his brain was whirring. It seemed absurd that the entire Wizarding World was wrong about Sirius Black. Sure the Ministry was corrupt enough to let his father off with a half-hearted excuse but that was a different proposition to declaring a man guilty of a crime he didn't commit.

But Potter wouldn't send him off to chase a dead man, would he? Unless it was a test of loyalty… But if it was, how would he be able to tell if Draco had looked at all? No, there was a rat and there was something special about it. If it was actually Pettigrew in disguise… Then Draco would hand him straight over to Potter.

Even he could see half a dozen different ways that a man like Pettigrew could be manipulated by a cunning enough individual. As a spy, as a bargaining chip, as blackmail material, as a tool to embarrass the Ministry… And Draco was sure that Potter could think of a dozen more possibilities besides.

And it was Draco's job to give him those possibilities.

"I'll find an excuse to go looking this summer," he said. "Am I allowed to bring a house elf?"

"If they can be truste—Wait. Dobby works for your family, right?"

"Yes." Draco wasn't sure how Harry knew that.

"Good. Take him and tell him that it's for me. And order him to not punish himself for not finding Pettigrew fast enough."

"Having a house-elf makes things easier… I'll go hunting as soon as I can. I'll have the rat in a cage for you by the World Cup, I promise!"

"Good," Potter said, nodding curtly. "I'll fill you in on the rest when you do."

—tN—tN—tN—

"When did you learn how to bake a cake?" Draco asked, bewildered. Greg and Vince shrugged.

"Not that hard," Greg ventured.

"Just a matter of practice," Vince agreed.

Draco just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Fine, what you do in your own time is up to you. But for the moment I need your help," the Malfoy heir said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Potter has entrusted me with finding a rat. I'll need you two as well."

Draco took a forkful of cake as he was speaking and bit into it as he paused for a moment. The pause didn't end immediately but was maintained, fork protruding from his lips. Then, carefully, he swallowed.

"This is some bloody good cake."

—tN—tN—tN—

"Scabbers! You found him!" Ron gaped at the wire cage that was dropped before Harry, a slightly-maimed rat contained within. "Good. Anyone know somewhere we can drown him?"

"Ron! No, we can't kill him," Hermione scolded before turning her eyes on Draco, Vince and Greg. "Actually, how did you find him?"

"It took a while," Draco said, pride buoying him up enough to tolerate even the Mudblood. "I had to enlist Dobby to actually capture him and spent weeks trekking through muddy fields. We had a feeling he'd be heading abroad, so we were able to corner him in a port."

"Learned lots about fish," Greg muttered, Vince nodding in agreement. Draco ignored them and focused only on the face of Potter.

Harry was somewhat surprised. He knew Draco had promised results by the World Cup but he hadn't expected it to actually happen.

And now he had to come clean.

"Take a seat, you guys," Harry said, gesturing to the other side of the campfire. "So, this is what happened..."

—tN—tN—tN—

"Your minions can cook?" Ron asked, bewildered. Even as he expressed his surprise, he sampled the cookies Vince and Greg had provided.

"They're not my minions," Draco snapped. "And they taught themselves. What did you think they did in their spare time? Stand around practicing grunting?"

"Grunting's easy," Vince said. "We could do that good halfway through second-year."

Draco blinked.

"Okay, scratch that. The point still stands, Weasley. Don't jump to conclusions."

The unofficial 'Keep Harry Potter Alive' club had met in a random classroom as soon as term started back. Vince and Greg had vanished immediately while Draco filled the Gryffindors in on what he knew of the Triwizard Tournament, Moody, Karkaroff and anything else that Harry could think of.

When Vince and Greg returned bearing confectionaries of their own making, the meeting had been placed on indefinite hiatus while the sweets were savoured.

Harry was quite partial to the miniature treacle tarts, taking bites in-between examining the Slytherins as if looking for some sign it was all a joke.

If there was a punchline, it certainly wasn't in the baking.

—tN—tN—tN—

"So, we're absolutely one hundred percent certain that nobody put my name in the Goblet of Fire?" Harry asked for the eleventh time in as many minutes. Thirty-six minutes and twelve seconds, to be exact. Draco kept track.

"Myself, Vince, Greg or one of your lackeys was keeping watch at all times," Draco said, also for the eleventh time. "Just relax and enjoy the tournament. Nothing's going to go wrong."

The two departed from their extremely-public and -obvious secret meeting in the middle of the Entrance Hall and went to the feast separately.

Harry did not mention the Invisibility Cloak he had under his robe. Draco did not mention the broomstick he'd stashed under the Gryffindor table earlier. They were far too busy reassuring each other that they were being too paranoid while their friends looked on, caught between confusion and pity.

The Feast began. The Goblet came to life. Krum and Delacour were called without undue alarm. The 'Keep Harry Potter Alive' club did tense when the Hogwarts champion was chosen but mostly relaxed when Diggory was the one called forward. Mostly. Draco had floated the possibility that someone would try and confound the Goblet.

Instead, the Goblet returned to its slumber without further drama. The feast, the evening and, indeed, the rest of the year, followed suit.

Fleur took the Cup—and the gold—home with her. But that was just the nature of the game.

How anticlimactic.

—tN—tN—tN—

Vince and Greg hated Muggles. It wasn't necessarily because they had to hide from them or that they were inferior beings incapable of magic. It was because of pizza.

The very concept of a pizza was ingenious. A baked base playing host to a layer of sauce, then sprinkled with any of a wide array of toppings? It was a profoundly versatile form of food.

And Muggles despoiled it.

Their 'fast food' and 'takeaway' industries pushed them to ever more elaborate steps in stripping away all that was great about pizza.

The cheese was cheap and closer to plastic or tile grout than any true dairy product. The sauce was thin and watered down, as much food colouring as tomatoes. The meat was processed and mostly fat.

And the crusts… The crusts were no true pizza bases. They were blobs of mass-produced dough, poisoned with preservatives and the Dark Lord knew what else. Blobs of dough that were stamped and squashed into the right shapes, then blasted with crude heat until they blackened at the edges.

Travesties, each and every one.

Greg and Vince hated Muggles. And they had their own plan to exact vengeance and establish the natural order of things.

"So, let me get this straight," Harry said, bemused. "You want me to support you in starting your own thoroughly non-magical pizzeria chain in order to crush the existing Muggle ones and, uh, 'smash their faces in their own disgusting produce'?"

—tN—tN—tN—

"You traitor!" Fred declared, levelling one finger at Harry. "How could you do this to us?"

"We trusted you," George added, face creasing in anger. "We gave you our hopes and dreams, we thought you believed in them, that you would stand by us in our hour of need."

"Instead," Fred continued, "we find that you have turned and leant your aid to our most fearsome and loathsome foes. What of House loyalty? What of comradery? What of friendship?"

"Is there no bond too sacred for you to have crossed?" George said. "Do you truly value your memories with us so little as to discard them so easily? Why, Harry, why? Answer in words or answer in spells, for you have levelled a challenge most dire at our honour, a challenge that we must answer lest our black name be cleanse—"

"You do realise," Harry said, bemused, "that just because I said I'd support Greg and Vince's bakery it doesn't mean that I'm going to abandon you? I mean, have you even _tasted_ their stuff? It's ridiculously good. Besides, I was going to suggest a collaboration. I've seen—and _tasted_ —some of your products and… Honestly, they're disgusting. Vince and Greg agreed to help you refine your recipes so long as they get some samples to get out of class from time to time."

"Oh," Fred said, blinking, "well that makes this awkward."

—tN—tN—tN—

The bread was beautiful. The crust was warm beneath Petunia's fingers, smooth and unbroken. She rapped her finger on it gently and was answered with a slight echo. Not too dense, nor too light.

Petunia licked her lips, casting her eyes around nervously. But Har—her nephew and his friends were still upstairs. Her Dudley was out with his friends and Vernon was at work. There was nobody watching.

She selected the bread knife from its place in the knife rack. It was a long, shiny, blade of stainless steel, serrated along the length of one edge, but rounded to a blunted point at the other end. The handle was moulded plastic that sat perfectly in her grip. A purchase they'd made the month before after seeing it on television.

The knife bit easily into the loaf. The crust spiderwebbed around the cut, cracks dividing the pristine surface into a multitude of islands stretched apart by the sawing of the blade but never breaking. Not a crumb was shed.

The inside was a delight to behold. Before ever laying eyes on it, Petunia could tell from the ease with which it was cut that it would be light and fluffy, solid enough to hold substance and support spreads, but porous enough for those same spreads to seep through the surface and sink deep into the slice.

And the smell! If Petunia hadn't known from the heat she'd felt from the crust, she would have known from the other side of the house that the bread was freshly baked. It smelled of flour. It smelled of heated ovens. It smelled of sandwiches cut and prepared with care, wrapped in a bundle and handed to her with a smile and a kiss on her forehead.

While her mind swum with nostalgia, her hands moved on auto-pilot, carving two even slices of bread in moments and laying them out on a platter. The bread knife was set down and exchanged for its shorter, blunter, cousin; the butter knife. The knife sliced off a thin cut of butter before skimming over the bread, depositing a thin layer of gold where it passed.

Petunia almost reached for the marmalade, then checked herself. She crouched down, opening her cupboard and questing for a jar at the back. A pot of fine jam, an expensive luxury that she was never able to justify opening. Now she did.

The lid popped off and the smell of fruit joined that of baked bread. A spoon replaced the butter knife and extracted a scoop of jam from the pot. It clung to the implement, fluid and yet solid. She deposited on the bread and spread it out in quick, easy motions, honed by years of practice.

The jam and butter were stowed, the cutlery deposited for washing. Later though, she had procrastinated enough.

One slice was pressed down over the other, forming that constant staple, the sandwich. Petunia picked it up with trembling hands. Her hesitance was broken by the shifting of feet upstairs, reminding her that there were others that might wander in at any time.

She bit. The bread was as perfect as it promised. The jam was sweet and smooth, lacking the bits that she usually detested. Together they formed a two-part symphony of flavour, a masterpiece that left tears trickling down her cheeks. Then the band fell quiet, the sandwich consumed.

Quick and violent, Petunia threw the remainder of the loaf in the bin. She hated magic, hated witches, hated wizards, hated them all and everything they brought.

She hated that they could produce such wonder that she could never even begin to compare.

—tN—tN—tN—

"Weasley, could you possibly explain why your mother is teaching our Defence class this year?" Malfoy asked, his voice carefully polite.

"I've got no bloody idea," Ron said, head falling to the table with a _thud_. Once they'd revived him and dealt with the minor bruising, he continued. "Apparently Dumbledore has been having even more difficulty than usual getting a teacher, which is weird. I mean, nothing happened to Moody. He just left once the year was up."

"My father has been complaining about the quality of some of the Headmaster's selections as of late," Draco admitted. "Even if he's not on the Board of Governors after that incident in second-year—"

"You mean the one where your father tried to kill my little sister with a cursed diary?" Ron asked, teeth grinding on each word until Hermione smacked him on the head and handed him a pamphlet on dental care.

"That was never proven!" Draco protested. As Harry looked up from his homework to glare at him, Draco slumped again. "Yes, that one."

"Actually, how has your father been getting by?" Harry asked, setting his work aside entirely for a moment to put his full attention on the Slytherin. Draco shivered slightly under the gaze. "With all the different scandals that have been directed at him, how does anyone still do business with him? How rich are you?"

"Very." Draco's answer was blunt. "We're an extremely old family that's hoarded wealth and power for generations. Treasures, secrets, knowledge, you name it. We steal, sell, blackmail and extort wherever we can to keep our vault well-stocked."

Hermione's lips formed a thin line while Ron's brow darkened in a frown. Harry was thoughtful for a moment though.

"Your father makes public donations to St Mungo's and other charities, right?"

"Yeah. It's part of what keeps him shiny even with all the accusations."

"Right. Unless Ron's mother decides to try and kill us, we should have some time this year. We're using it to see how much gold we can trick Malfoy senior into putting in Muggle charities and non-pureblood businesses."

—tN—tN—tN—

"Draco?"

"Yes, Potter? I mean, Harry?"

"Remember how I asked you to track down Pettigrew for me and you did it in record time?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember when you helped us close the Chamber of Secrets by spying on your father and telling us everything you found?"

"Yes?"

"You remember how that turned out to be because of a cursed diary your dad gave Ginny?"

"..."

"You remember?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well, I need you to do something like all of those again. But four times over."

"What?"

"Voldemort—stop flinching!—made a bunch of cursed items like the diary. According to Dumbledore he probably asked his Death Eaters to help hide some of them. We need to find and destroy all of them."

"Dumbledore? Why can't he take care of this the—"

"I need it done before I leave school."

"They'll all be ashes before the next Sorting."

"Good. Here's what you need to know..."

—tN—tN—tN—

"I still don't understand why you decided to support Hermione's SPEW campaign," Harry noted, frowning at something in his textbook.

Draco shrugged and double-checked his membership badge was still in place. With his left arm of course. His right was still immobile after an Inferius nearly bit it off the previous week.

"It seemed like the right thing to do," Draco said, completely honestly. It had taken him a while but he was mostly sure he understood how Harry's mind worked, how he liked to test Draco. When the Mudblo—Granger had shoved a tin in his face demanding his support and Potter had turned away, Draco knew exactly what was going on.

After all, if Draco merely took his cues from how Harry reacted, then he couldn't truly be said to understand him, right? So instead, Draco had taken to trying to anticipate Harry's intentions, drawing on past interactions. And he remembered how Harry had specifically asked him to involve Dobby.

So, when Granger had come looking for support to help the stupid house elves, Draco knew exactly what he was supposed to do. It didn't hurt that he'd folded SPEW into the ongoing campaign to leech away the Malfoy riches into worthwhile causes. His father had yet to notice, though others were beginning to get suspicious.

"A complete nutter," Ron muttered, shaking his head and scowling at his homework. "Both of you, actually. The homework this year is ridiculous, how can you find the time to work on stuff like that?"

"You have to make time for things that are important, Ronald," Granger said primly. "Good causes aren't going to advocate themselves. If we want any substantial change then we have to do it ourselves."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Draco agreed, smiling perfectly.

Harry continued to ignore the conversation with studious indifference, preferring instead to pore through his Potions textbook. It didn't matter, Draco understood.

—tN—tN—tN—

Several platters of assorted confectioneries dominated a set of tables pulled into the centre of the classroom. Around these tables was a crowd of slightly over half-a-dozen students, awkwardly standing around and realising that their venue of choice was entirely too large.

Neville was nervously trying to engage Ron in conversation. Draco was determinedly conversing with Hermione on what next to do with SPEW since they were nearly out of Hogwarts. Vince and Greg were talking with Harry about their own plans.

All told, it was all very awkward. The only reason most of them were even there was to grab some of Greg and Vince's cooking before they went commercial.

—tN—tN—tN—

The Hogwarts Express had only one job each year; to ferry students back and forth between their home lives and school lives. It was not a task that demanded much in the line of ostentation.

Its compartments were what a Muggle would describe as 'Business class seating', more than the bare basics but far below the point at which they could be called luxurious. The catering provided was simple and uncomplicated. And above all, there was the ceaseless sound of wheels on rails.

Those who travelled aboard the Express knew every shake and shiver along the way. That the panting of the engine brought them that much closer to a new start, a new life.

"What are you planning to do after leaving Hogwarts, Draco?" Harry asked. They were on the Hogwarts Express for the last time. This time, there was no snubbing, Slytherins and Gryffindors shared their compartment amicably.

"I'm not entirely sure," Draco admitted. "While I do plan on supporting Granger's reforms, I'm still undecided on what path would suit me best Professor Snape recommended I take a job in the Ministry, but that doesn't narrow things down much. My family… We don't tend to actually work. Might change now, of course…"

"I will be pursuing SPEW full time," Hermione declared. "I've already got some meetings lined up with some of the members of the Wizengamot to discuss things."

"I'm gonna try out for the aurors," Ron said, shrugging. "I mean, it's respectable, right?"

"I'm heading there too," Harry agreed. "Are you two still set on your catering company?"

Vince and Greg nodded in complete unison, the same spark of determination alight in their eyes.

"Well then, we'll have to see how things develop," Draco said, eyeing Harry as he sat back.

Draco hadn't forgotten his predictions, made in such a similar train carriage so long ago. Harry Potter had proved to be far more than the goody-two-shoes he'd seemed at first. He was cunning, resourceful and determined.

Somewhere along the way, Draco had stopped looking so keenly for signs that Potter was going to seize power like the Dark Lord before him. But, caught in the moment, he decided to consider the issue again.

Potter had surrounded himself with what Draco would begrudgingly admit was a small but loyal core of talented wizards and a witch. Granger was passionate and intelligent, a trait he'd become all too familiar when working with her. Weasley was relatively lacklustre by comparison but he had his own kind of savvy, a level of intuition that would serve him well as an auror, if Draco was any judge.

Vince and Greg were in a business relationship with Potter, as were the Weasley twins. While their business sense was mostly untested, Draco had long learned the quality of their products. If their ventures flourished, Potter stood to potentially make quite a tidy sum.

And then there was Draco himself. The heir of one of the most powerful pureblood families in Wizarding Britain. He'd been brought up in a world of protocol and privilege. Was taught to know his place. In the preceding seven years he'd become a comrade of Mudbloods and blood traitors, actively opposed the Dark Lord and his servants even against his father's will, helped steal considerable amounts of money from his own family, and become a proponent of house-elf rights.

And he couldn't for the life of him determine if there was any sort of plan to it all. If he looked back, Potter was certainly at the centre of everything but there was never any evidence of true manipulation. That could be a sign of a mastermind of the highest calibre, the kind that leads people into pulling their own strings to his bidding…

In any case, Harry Potter was surrounded by rising stars in the Wizarding World. The Boy Who Lived, a living legend, was to become an auror. Draco was well aware of the privilege a name and a reputation could earn a wizard and could hazard a guess at Potter's likely career path.

Citing his godfather's grievous injustice—overturned three and a half years hence—he would spearhead a change in the Magical Law enforcement. With Weasley by his side and Granger—as well as Draco himself—supporting him, he'd do it too. As Weasley had said, the post of auror was respected indeed. As a successful one, Potter would have his choice of paths.

 _There_ was a picture.

There was no sign of the Dark Lord. Not even the vaguest hints of him. In that respect, Draco was entirely wrong all those years ago.

If he tried, he could twist the framework into the silhouette of Dark Lord Potter. But the content didn't bear that out.

He was wrong. He'd gambled everything on a flawed assumption and rolled snake eyes.

"Want a Chocolate Frog, Draco?" Harry asked, offering him one such sweet. Draco took it, unwrapping the bewitched chocolate on automatic. The frog made its bid for freedom, was caught in midair, and decapitated by a single efficient bite.

The card was Merlin, the prince of enchantment. The Slytherin that everyone denied. Again.

If everything Draco had done was wrong… Then why did he feel like he was winning?

"When did they start making _Felix Felicis_ flavoured beans?" Draco asked.


End file.
